“I thought you said you were married to Brando Fausti?” Mouthpiece said almost accusingly to me. “Why are you with Luca? When did he get out of jail?”
I had no idea why he blabbered, but I sensed that he didn’t expect Brando to be there— or the man he believed was Luca, and was rethinking the situation once more.
“How do you know what Luca looks like?” I was truly curious.
“Scarlett,” Brando warned.
“Ha,” Mouthpiece said. It sounded more like an astounded noise than a humorous one. “Anyone in their right mind knows who the Faustis are. Especially Lucious Fausti. There are songs written about how savage he is. You don’t forget what the devil looks like, sweetheart. The devil lives in those eyes.” He nodded toward Brando.
“You should talk!” I snapped. “And thisismy husband. Brando Fausti. Luca’s son.”
“Brando’s in Africa,” Taylor said, taking a step closer. He had seen Brando before, but his friend casted doubt. I could tell by the uncertain look in his eyes that he wasn’t sure if it was Brando or his father. Apart from the lanterns, the night was thick, and it played tricks.
Brando didn’t move. The knife was still in his back pocket. There was no tension coming from him, no fear or anything of the like. It sometimes unnerved me how cool he could be in the face of danger. He almost welcomed it.
Brando cleared his throat. He nodded to Taylor, said his name, then the man to his left, the one who was so familiar with the Fausti name, Shawn Jenkins, then the one to his right, Victor Vaughn. The one behind me he identified as Spencer Wilkerson.
“Essere la mia bocca,” Brando said to me.Be my mouth.
“What did he say?” Jenkins demanded.
It was as if they wanted me to translate the language of a beast.
I made Jenkins wait a hot minute before I answered. Brando patted my hip, proud that I didn’t jump to listen to him.
Brando spoke in Italian again and I echoed his words in English. At first I wondered why he did it. Why he didn’t speak to them. But the effect it created was almost eerie. “My husband compels me to say that you are all cowards that do not deserve to be called men. To frighten a woman, to manhandle her, is the lowest form of cowardice that he has ever encountered.”
Here, he pulled forth my arm, stilled marked with the bruises Taylor made on my skin. I should've known he would've noticed. That was why he kept kissing me in those spots.
“This is no man. This is a boy, a fool, a cowardly lion. Scarlett Fausti is my wife. My blood. Laying a hand on her is laying a hand on me. The offense is worse. We know who you are, we know the name of every member of your family, your friends too. If you go now, I will make things easier on you in the future. If blood is spilled here today in front of my wife—” I shrugged, allowing the moment to hang in the air. I felt like I breathed in heat and dust. “I will take no pity. The Irishman was prepared to die for her. I am prepared to kill for her. For the crimes against my blood, my heart, you will—” I couldn't finish. I couldn't say the words.
“Diglielo,” Brando said to me, low-voiced, and his tone left no room for discussion.
Though Wilkerson couldn't understand his words, he took a step back and glanced behind him. He wiped sweat from his brow.
I cleared my throat. “You will die at my hands, unless God takes you first. That will be a mercy.”
Either way their fates had been sealed. He was offering them a more peaceful death, not because he had mercy on them, but only because I stood there. He didn’t want me to see.
Brando slid the knife from its place. The steel glinted against the fiery lamps. I could see the reflection of the flames rising along the metal, licking it.
The night was just getting started. The streets started to swell with people out to enjoy the scene. And three men had somehow materialized, hitting one another and laughing. When they caught sight of us, the four goons and the man with the knife, the woman in red at his back, their faces fell. Laughter abruptly fizzled into tense silence.
“Get help!” I screamed at them in English, and then in Spanish for good measure.
One of them pulled a phone from his pocket, but the others seemed like they wanted to run.
I was determined to make it to the restaurant before all hell broke loose. Rocco, Romeo, Donato, Gabriel, and Michael were waiting, and a few more Italians.
Before I could get far, Wilkerson went to snatch at me, but he was cumbersome and I was swift. But Brando was pushing me toward the wall, all the while Wilkerson tried to herd me in. There were too many of them. Even with the threat of the knife and the madman out for revenge, determination glistened like sweat on their faces.
Taylor and Jenkins advanced on Brando, while Wilkerson yanked me toward him. These men never learned. My squirming was above average. He couldn’t get a good grip on me.
“Keep still, you slippery bitch!”
He had me, and then once again, I slipped through his hands, like I was greased in caster oil. Perhaps from years on the field, he was crouched, legs apart. I took advantage of this position and came up with a kick so swift and powerful that he doubled up, mouth forming anO.
My legs only looked lissome. Below the surface lurked finely trained muscles that were taught to conceal their strength, to hide it in honor of the graceful moves they could make. My feet packed a mighty punch. Not to mention the heels.
